Each Fragment The Whole


I read these short poems from my books, pausing for silence
between each one, as a single guided meditation, each fragment
returning us to the wholeness of Presence...
You Are Cordially Invited
To the Cotillion
of Your Imperfections.
Please Bring Your
Most Beautiful Disaster
In a Sparkling Gown
So that We may Honor Her
As the Living Gateway
To Love.

What the bud calls a wound

we call blossoming.
This is how the angels see
our gashed and broken places.
They keep singing,
"Stay open, stay open!"
Don't you know that through your tears
that world flows as light
into this one?

The Goddess whispered to my heart,

you are not here to suffer.
Learn from the bee.

You are here to ferment the nectar.
Visit dark sticky places

in everything that blossoms.

God meant to drop this mirror,

shattering into countless images her perfect gaze.
This is why we meet in clefts and gouges,
putting ourselves together again
through each other,
until we recognize one face
with seven billion reasons
for astonishment.
 

Of your mother and father
all that remains is you.
Of the bee and flower, just honey.
Of the master and disciple
only a quivering braid of cream
poured from bowl to cup.
Why ask if there are one or two?
Compare us, my beauty, to melting snow.
Give up perfection, take up
laughter and tears.

My soul has nothing to do
with believing.
My essence is intensely
playful silence,
free of opinions
about anything.
I will meet you here
in a flash
of astonishment.
The bee doesn't ask,
"What kind of flower
are you?"
He is only interested
in the shock and sweetness
of connecting.

Peel away another layer of the dream.
Disappear without a trace
into the inconceivable vastness
of the next moment.

This is how God becomes dust.
Touch your forehead to the earth,
bow down to the light in your body.
When the light within lifts up your head
crying, "Do not worship me, for I am you,"
bow down, bow down.
All around you, dripping with quietness,
flowers are doing this to rain.
The golden moth that lives one day
does this to a flame, the moon
to the sun. One breath
does it to another.
Receive yourself.
Bow down and drink.
Be the mother of your heart.
This is how dust becomes God.

There's a heart within your heart.
When this one beats
that one sings about light,
the gong in the atom’s hollow,
photons echoing a golden bell
never struck.
This sound could only mean one thing:
a Lover whispering your name
before you were conceived.
Why should your flesh be filled with
anything but music?

You crave sensations
of earth, air, fire, water,
touch, smell, hearing, sight -
yet the only sensation
that can ever fulfill you
is the motionless unscented
invisible opening
of the rose in your chest.

As many times as there are stars
I asked “Why?”
The night was silent.
Then just once I said,
“Your love.”
The night became a song.
A stillness blossomed
deep in my body,
another and more secret sky.
Your touch was a blade
so whetted and
deadly soft
my heart barely knew
it had been severed
into I and Thou.

Blossoms don’t open themselves.
It takes a sunbeam to ignite the rose.
I was asleep until you placed
a ruby on my chest
awakening the expiration
of this gentle song, the whisper
of Spring in a Winter garden.
So’ham, So’ham, So’ham...
One breath pours wine into
the burnished cup of another.
Some say that this is just
a sound without meaning.
I say it means the Magdalene
has met Jesus
in the bridal chamber
of the heart.

Liken the present moment
to a dogwood blossom,
petals unfolding in stillness,
silence, generosity, peace,
four petals, four signs
of the heart,
and at the core an
infinitesimal pistil
with a secret fragrance
we might call love,
known only to the drunken one
who visits on wings
that hum and sing.
It's evening
and April after all,
but any moment will do
if you are truly here.